The Life-Changing Magic of Losing My Suitcase in Italy

I’ve always considered myself lucky. 

I am lucky that my family reunions have only ever happened overseas. I am lucky that I do not remember my first trip abroad — I was simply too young and the trip was too ordinary for me. Travel has been inextricable from my identity, with my mother hailing from Hong Kong and my father from New York City. 

Whether or not I knew it or not, I was the progeny of citizens from two of the most metropolitan and global cities on Earth. There are many things I am not, but lucky is one thing I certainly am. 

Except for this one time in Italy. 

The year was 2018 and I was barely 21 years old. Nevertheless, with travel in my blood and a youthful naïveté in my eyes, I found myself aboard a 4 a.m. train from Rome to Naples. It was one of those budget trains where you run into foreign students and unemployed; my ticket stub didn’t cost more than €7.00.

I still remember the cashier at the ticket booth triple-checking that I knew which ticket I was buying.

“Are you sure you want that one?” she asked me, with an Italian accent.

“Yep,” I said, my mind distracted.

“Really?”

“Yep.”

She looked at me, then my luggage, then shrugged as if to say “there goes another tourist.”

Her triple-checking should have been the first hint that there were better options that day.

At the time, I was brimming with the confidence ingrained in one who is well traveled. Yet, unbeknownst to me, I was forgetting the very important detail that all previous travels of mine had been with my family. 

Italy marked the first international trip that, instead of my mother, I brought along a carry-on duffel.

The things you learn when you go somewhere without mom for the first time.

Lost and not found

I boarded the train groggy from the previous night of tossing and turning in a hostel bunk bed. My eyelids felt as heavy as my feet that I dragged ever more slowly. The few passengers around me spoke fast and hushed, and tossed their luggages atop the overhead compartments that hung above the seats. I did the same, throwing my duffel bag above an unnecessarily hard and uncomfortable seat that did not recline. 

Knowing I had a few hours before my arrival, I put my headphones in and fell asleep. 

When I woke up, I glanced upwards at my duffel bag. Or at least to the spot that my duffel bag should have been. Standing up in a panic, I looked up and down the aisle and began asking Italian strangers if they had seen my bag, which of course they had not. 

A few laps up and down my train carriage left me empty-handed and feeling like a deflated balloon. I still had weeks of solo-travel through Italy, and now I was without all my things — more importantly, I was without my passport. 

The hostel I checked into had their front desk on the 4th floor of the building. The desk clerk asked me if I left my luggage downstairs in the lobby, and I replied that all my belongings actually fit into my pockets.

The lady looked down at my reservation again — her nose wrinkled quizzically as if to ask “a five-night booking and your things fit into your pockets?” But she simply shrugged and that was that.

After a grueling three-hour wait in the US Embassy in Naples, I had a temporary passport. In addition to the clothes on my back, I still carried enthusiasm and gusto to see as much of Italy as I could, whether or not I had luggage. And so I did. 

And that is what stays with me most: it isn’t always about the things you carry with you on your travels, it’s about the experiences you take home with you.

Yes, I lost all my personal belongings, my passport, a credit card — but I still came away so much richer than when I arrived. At the very least, I came away with this story that I now share here today. That in itself reveals the magic of travel (and of losing your luggage).

Looking back, I’d say I was pretty damn lucky to get my bag stolen. It highlighted that, even when things seem to be going wrong, there are experiences to be had and stories to live. Life doesn’t stop when something goes wrong. When something goes wrong, life just starts to move faster.

Losing my luggage was the lemon that Italy gave me. Carrying on with the clothes on my back and a smile on my face was my best attempt at lemonade.

I’ve always considered myself lucky.

This article originally appeared as a guest post on the Studentessa Matta travel and Italian language website. Then, it first appeared on this website on October 6, 2020.

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